


To Keep

by elizabethofyork



Series: My Golden Prince [3]
Category: The White Queen (TV), Tudor History - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Mother/Son platonic bonding, etc - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 00:33:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7663216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethofyork/pseuds/elizabethofyork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Elizabeth of York gives birth to the future Henry VIII and bonds with her newborn son</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Keep

Random details filtered in through Elizabeth of York’s clouded senses: the feel of her sister Cecily’s fingers brushing her sweat-soaked hair back, summer sunlight shining through the opened window, the wail of her child’s cry. Yes, it had to be her child’s, she had felt the babe leave her, had heard the clip of the scissors and the sighs of relief from the midwives.This babe was loud, she noted, like her Margaret; there was no trace of Arthur’s first wispy gasps in this one’s breathing. She had time only to smile and say a small prayer of thanks to God before exhaustion pulled her down into sleep. 

When she awoke, it was nighttime. Someone had bathed her and made her decent while she slept, and Cecily was seated at the end of the bed, her dark hair hanging down from her bowed head, creating a curtain around her lap.

“Cecily?” 

Her sister’s head snapped up, revealing a rosy pink infant in swaddling clothes cradled in her arms. She hastened over to Elizabeth, gently giving the child over to her sister. 

“Say hello to your son, Bess.” There was no mistaking the pride in Cecily’s voice. 

“Oh,” Elizabeth breathed, her throat constricted with raw joy. This child had Margaret’s red-gold hair as well as her strength; there was a little cleft in his chin, and his eyes were clear blue like her husband’s, his only feature Elizabeth found not to be harsh. The prince had been sulky and fussy to the chagrin of even his experienced attendants, but he had only delightful coos and gummy smiles for his mother. _Rotten thing_ , his aunt thought, smiling. 

“He’s to be named Henry, for the king’s grace, you know.” Cecily paused, worrying her lip. She did not say what she–and, surely, her sister–were thinking: that there was a time when Elizabeth dreamed of children without Lancastrian names, where she might have raised little Edwards and Richards, and Annes and Elizabeths, too, where she would have been married for love. They never spoke of it, not even in private, but silence could not rewrite history.

Elizabeth knew full well Cecily’s meaning, and waved it off with a flick of her hand.  Her father had named his third son for the brother he had always mistrusted and disliked;  that had not stopped him from executing her uncle Clarence not a year afterwards. In turn, Clarence had named his eldest son for the older brother he envied with all his heart, and his second for the younger brother he perceived as a thief: of Edward’s favor, position, money. Names meant little and less to her family: gossamer in the wind, less than nothing. This boy would be named for her husband, but he would be hers, she swore it. 

Suddenly, an urge struck Elizabeth, fueled by her silent vow and the privacy of the confinement chamber, which was for once devoid of nosing women. She fumbled at the front laces of her gown. Cecily, seeing her intent, frowned and pulled her hands away, grasping them firmly. “You have done your duty, Bess. Let the wet nurse attend to that.” 

Elizabeth yanked her hands away and continued her task, exposing her chest to the balmy air of the room. “Just the once, that’s all I want.” When Cecily still looked sternly unconvinced, Elizabeth pressed with, “Cis, please.” 

The use of her childhood nickname jolted Cecily; this was no idle whim of her sister’s, born of exhaustion and the strain of labor. She shrugged. “As Your Grace wishes.” 

Elizabeth lifted the babe to her breast, and gave a soft sigh of contentment when little Henry began to nurse. Just once was not all she wanted, but it was all she would take. She had to accept that another woman’s milk would nourish him, another woman’s hands would grasp his as he learned to walk, and another woman’s voice would lull him to sleep, but she was determined to make him hers. He would not be forever distant, like Arthur was, or destined to marry and live far away, like Margaret and any other daughters she might bear. Little Henry would go into the Church, or he would take up the mantle of a younger son; it mattered little, for he was not the heir. What mattered was that he would stay in England,  with her. After losing so many family to the civil war that had bloodied the kingdom for thirty years, Elizabeth smiled as she looked down at the one person she knew she could keep. 


End file.
